Meanwhile, the hapless farmer had been discovered by certain friends and neighbours who were returning from the fair. Under their kindly care he so far recovered that, lifted on his quiet steed and upheld by a couple of stalwart men, he was enabled to reach his home. After a little while, however, fever supervened, and Kasper Crabtree lay in sore uncertainty as to whether the issue would be life or death. The miserly and irascible old bachelor could not command that loving attention and affectionate nursing which his age and weakness now required. The mechanical offices of his hired housekeeper were but a poor substitute for the tender sympathies and watchful care of wife or daughter. Dr. Jephson had been called in, and seeing the gravity of the case he assumed at once unquestioned authority; and at his urgent request Lucy Blyth was speedily installed as sick nurse by the old man’s bed. It must be owned that even her patient and gentle spirit was tried to the utmost, by the peevish and testy invalid, whose crabbish nature was developed by his constrained imprisonment to an almost unbearable degree. But Lucy Blyth was doing her Saviour’s work, doing it in His strength and for His glory. Her naturally loving and sympathetic spirit was strengthened and purified by the helpful grace of God; so she went through her merciful mission with a brave heart, and in a little while, pierced the crust that surrounded the heart of her unpromising charge. He melted beneath the sunshine of her presence, and by slow degrees Kasper Crabtree was led to employ his compulsory leisure in thinking and talking of “Jesus and His love.” When first the invalid descried her by his bed, he bluntly said,-- “Who sent for you?” “That doesn’t matter,” said Lucy, “I should have come of my own accord as soon as I heard you were ill.” “Why, what business is it of yours, whether I’m ill or well?” persisted he. “It’s my business to go wherever I can do anybody a service. Jesus went about doing good, and I’m trying to follow in His steps. Here,” said she, lifting a glass of cool, refreshing drink to his parched lips, “You must drink this, then I shall smooth your pillow, and you must try to go to sleep.” “And what will you do?” “I shall sit here and pray that you may soon get well, and watch till you wake, and then give you another drink.” “You’re a queer fish,” said the farmer, as he looked with wonder at the beautiful face bending over him. By and bye he dropped off into half a doze, and Lucy softly sang as she would a lullaby,-- “Jesu, lover of my soul.” After a little while he appeared to wake up. “What was that you were singing?” he said; “sing it again.” Again the sweet words, which have brought hope and balm to thousands of sufferers, were trilled out in touching tones from Lucy’s lips. A strange light shone through his eyes, as he sighed, and said,-- “How sweet it is! Now, I shall be very quiet, and you must go down into the parlour and rest a bit.”